


Miscellaneous

by svetlanacat4



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svetlanacat4/pseuds/svetlanacat4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some drabbles... rather gen...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Children's Game

The Chibis were made with Chibi Maker (<http://gen8.deviantart.com/art/Chibi-Maker-1-1-346025144>)

_They peeped at him in a very unpleasant way. Then he saw his reflection in a window pane. He froze. A fuchsia Hawaiian shirt... pink shorts... pink flip flop? A few minutes ago, Wendy had pinned his ID on his gray jacket lapel... He knew it for sure. What the hell..._

  


“ _Napoleon...”, a familiar voice hissed. He turned to his partner and gasped. Illya was hiding behind the door. He wore white dance tights, blue tee-shirt... ballet shoes, a flower in his hair. He looked desperate._

“Mooooomyyyyy! She took my UNCLE dolls! She dressed them with her Ken's clothes!”


	2. Partners, always...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is easier with some helpful partner...

With barely concealed amusement, the Russian leaned forward and studied the amazing injury.

“I'm not sure we'll be able to fix it...” He sighed theatrically. “Stitches? Won't be enough... Though...”, he hesitated, “at the moment...” He grabbed the lips of the wound and joined them not too gently.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Take it easy and grit you teeth...”

 

 

Illya took a safety pin and stitched up the wound. “At least, it isn't bleeding...”

“This isn't remotely funny! I know this smile of yours and...”

 

The Russian brushed dust away from the torn pants. “Mr Waverly's gonna love that...”


	3. A Very Long Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small bedroom, a single bed, two UNCLE agents...

He stretched slowly, carefully his legs, causing the springs to moan ominously and cursed as his toes hit the metal bars.

The room – a “chambre de bonne”, the old lady said... a “maid bedroom”... -, was slightly smaller than a closet, with a short, narrow, obviously single bed. The woman had pointed at a blanket and a pillow on a chair.

“ _Un de vous va devoir coucher là._..” “One of you will have to sleep here”

Illya, the Russian, his new partner had thanked her in his impeccable French and she had left, adding that the bathroom was at the end of the corridor.

“At least, we won't have to use a “ _pot de chambre_ ”... A chamber pot...”, Illya stated with an insufferable half smile.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. Apparently his partner was enjoying himself. Though, he was about to suggest they could toss a coin when he realized that Illya had already set up the pillow and the blanket on the chair.

At the moment, Napoleon Solo was fully awake, fighting an irrepressible craving for moving, tossing and turning which he couldn't do because of the squeaking, creaking it would result in.

Of course, there was not even a curtain and the room bathed in the lights of the street.

It would a long night. A very long night.

Icing on the cake, Illya, his partner was soundly asleep, literally spread on the chair, blissfully unaware of the dazzling light, of the uncomfortable position and of his partner's misery.


	4. Matter of necessity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Necessity? Opportunity?

Suddenly Napoleon Solo grabbed his partner and pushed him against the wall, giving him a loving embrace. He kissed him more than passionately, causing the two men who were strolling about to sneer crudely.

“Hey, buddy! You got your blond chick, lucky guy!”

Solo waved an impatient hand. The two men went away snickering.

But Napoleon didn't release his hold.

But he didn't break off the kiss, pressing his lips against his partner's, insistently, forcing them to give way, savoring the moment, enjoying every second until Illya would push him away and punch him... at the very least.

And... no.


	5. The Opera Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> La fleur que tu m'avais jetée...

First he noticed a red rose on his desk. And... a cigar. Then, a Spanish fan... 

Beautiful.

Though, he smelled a rat... Waverly had called him in, unexpectedly and Illya... Illya had vanished into thin air.

***

“No, sir, I...”

Icy eyes sparkled through bushy eyebrows. “It's no use arguing, Mr. Solo.”

“But... but I can't sing, sir! I can't perform opera!”

“Right!” Alexander Waverly leaned forward with an evil grin. “But Section 4 – Thanks to Mr Kuryakin – worked out the difficulty. They fashioned a wonderful device. All you'll have to do is...” Evil grin, again, “ ... Miming... You'll be a great Don Jose...”

 _Thanks to Mr. Kuryakin... Thanks to Mr. Kuryakin_... a fuming Napoleon Solo muttered as he was heading to his office. Leaning against the wall, Illya was casually playing with the fan, humming a vaguely familiar melody.

“Illya! What the hell...”

“The Flower Song, Napoleon... _La fleur que tu m'avais jetée..._ The flower that you had thrown me... Don Jose.. Eeeeh...” He ducked when the pencil cup came flying at him. “A flower, Napoleon!” 


	6. War Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys are boys...

Wars were matter of alliance and strategy, either politic or economic... or mostly both. Battles... Battles implied might, courage and... chance. Never disregard chance... Victory, he often experienced it, resulted of a delicate mix of expertise, will and... luck.

He unlocked the door, opened it partway and craned cautiously. The place was dark, silent and apparently deserted.

Apparently.

Never underrate your opponent.

He crawled sneakily and crouched down next to the wall, still on alert but the apartment was absolutely silent. He slid his hand under the couch, smirking. The weapons, carefully chosen and tested, were ready...

Suddenly he heard voices in the hallway.

Innocent neighbors? 

He hesitated. Eventually, he craned over the armrest.

The projectile hit him in the head but he managed to pull out his own weapon... and all hell broke loose. Feathers were whirling around, causing him to cough and choke desperately.

“Uncle, Napoleon?”

Napoleon sputtered a pitiful “Uncle” and Illya Kuryakin switched on the light.

White feathers powdered the room and Napoleon Solo like Spring snow.

“You... You...” He spit out, in both the proper and the figurative sense, “you cheated! You cut out my pillow!”

The Russian brushed away a feather from his friend's lapel.

“Who crept into my apartment, hid his pillow under my couch in order to take a quite debatable advantage?” He looked around and chuckled. “First, let's clean up this mess. Then... dinner. Your treat, of course... You're a good sport, aren't you?” 

A good sport? Yes, he was. He smiled and picked up a broom. 

Revenge was a dish best served cold.

 


	7. The Painters  Square Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Painters, Painters Square, Montmartre, Uncle agents...

 

 

 

5:30 pm. The usual crowd was strolling along the “Place du Tertre”. There were the artists, drawing, sketching, painting, paper profile cutting. There were a few native people who crossed the square hastily or stopped and enjoyed the show. And there were the tourists, families with complaining children, couples and... a man, a handsome brunet in an obviously expensive suit with a huge camera who peeped at the drawings, talked – tried to...- with the painters... and smiled at all the women he met.

“ _R'garde moi celui-là, gamin._..” (“Look at this one, boy!”) The old man shook his head in dismay, “ _Encore un qui est v'nu chercher une fille..._ ” (“ He's looking for a girl!”) He shrugged his shoulders, packed his scissors and the papers in an old cardboard case and held out his bottle to the young man who was sketching a portrait.

“ _T'en veux un coup?_ ” (”Want a shot?”)

“ _Non, merci. J'vais finir ça et puis j'vais rentrer..._ ” (“No, thanks, I gonna finish this and then, home!”)

“ _Comme tu veux, mon gars. A d'main!_ ” (“As you like it, boy! See you tomorrow.”)

“ _A d'main!_ ” (“See you tomorrow!”)

The old man left, staggering across the square, muttering inaudible things.

The dark haired man was looking around when his eyes met the young sketcher's. He came closer, casually, bent over the sketch and frowned.

 

“Is... Is this ME?”

The “Parisian kid” jumped down the low wall and chuckled, holding out the sketch to the man. A face, quite handsome, a cleft chin and... eyes like Tex Avery's wolf watching a beautiful chick.

“Funny, very funny, Illya...”

“ _Serviteur, m'sieu_ r...” (“Yours truly, Sir.”) He grabbed the other's sleeve. “ _Eh,_   _m'sieur... C'est pas gratuit.._.” ( Hey, you've to pay for it, sir.”)

 

Napoleon Solo looked daggers at the obviously self-satisfied Russian, gave him a few coins and rolled the sketch with the microdots.

“I'm sure that the ladies will fight like cats and dogs to get it at HQ...” Illya Kuryakin whispered.

“Brat!”

“ _A vot' service, m'sieur!_ ” (“At your disposal, sir!”)

 

 


	8. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncle agents don't sleep well, sometimes...

Illya Kuryakin woke up instantaneously. No one could have guessed it. He kept his eyes closed, controlling his breath. But he was listening.  
It was clicking. Clicking and clicking again in a tempo both unpredictable and obviously scheduled.  
It was clicking. Sometimes distantly, sometimes close.  
It was kind of a metallic scratching. Metallic but smooth. Smooth but threatening.  
He felt the familiar hump of his gun under the pillow and prepared himself.  
It was clicking.  
Illya Kuryakin froze. He knew the sound.  
The ominous snip of the scissors.  
“NO!”  
He woke up in a sweat, damp locks brushing his forehead.  
The day before...  
“You could do with a haircut, Mr. Kuryakin...”, Alexander Waverly stated, pointing his pipe at his agent's hair.


	9. The Debussy Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Uncle agents don't sleep well...

Eyes closed, he smiled blissfully, savoring the moment. A gentle breeze was bringing delicious scents, flowers, grass, moss... Birds were singing and water was lapping in harmony. A nap in the sweet meadows of childhood memories.  
No.  
Napoleon Solo woke up suddenly. No one could have guessed it. He kept his eyes closed, controlling his breath. He wasn't in his bedroom Scents, birds were real. So was the smooth moss he was lying on... naked.  
No bed... No pillow... no gun.  
In a very spontaneous gesture, he turned his head and couldn't help wincing. A lump, a huge lump... Thrush? He couldn't remember. At the moment, for all he knew, he should have been at his home, enjoying a day off. But obviously, he wasn't. He peeped through his eyelashes... grass, clovers... Well.... In a split second, he got to his feet, ready for anything... and froze with horror, as he tried to keep his balance. No feet... Hooves. Furry crooked legs... He gasped. From the waist, he was... he was a goat! He palpated his painful head and felt... horns. Small horns... What the hell...  
He took clumsily some uncertain steps towards the river, moved aside the reeds and looked down at his reflection.  
A faun. He was... a faun, half-man, half-goat... Suddenly, he heard a rustle next to him. His hoof slid and he fell heavily in the mud, greeting by female mocking laugh.  
He woke up in a sweat.  
The day before...  
“Mr Solo? I noticed the way you were looking at the young lady! You're not a faun, are you?”, Alexander Waverly stated, pointing his pipe at his agent.


	10. Rain, rain...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rain, droplets...

 

Rain. Everything around me is gray, blurred behind the striped curtain of the rain. I'm dripping, literally, despite the canopy of tree leaves. My hair are ridiculously flattened. Some tiny torrents are running down my face, my neck, drenching my tie which is spoiling my shirt with bluish snakes, ruining my suit. Will I tell about my shoes? Shoes? No. Muddy sponges. I hate rain. You think I'm whining? Yes, I am. In a few minutes, Illya will join me. Muddy, drenched, dripping and... gorgeous. Incredibly gorgeous. Look. Here he is. Delightfully drenched, pleasantly muddy, exquisitely dripping... Incredibly gorgeous. Rain.


	11. Knife Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His own skill and Napoleon's luck...

 

 

Balanced knives are undoubtedly the best. You don't have to get used to a balanced knife. It's all about the center of gravity, at the middle, exactly. You can throw it from the handle or from the blade, it doesn't matter.” The man had smiled ironically. “Anyway, you'll kill your opponent.”

But there was no opponent. Just... just a rope.

A rope and a few seconds.

A few seconds and dust devils.

Dust devils blurring his vision.

A rope and his partner. His friend.

A knife. Balanced? Unbalanced?

A deadly rope.

His own skill.

His own will.

And Napoleon's luck.


	12. The Red Carpet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cannes, 1962...

Cannes, 1962  
  
The young photographer sighed. There were hundreds of people cheering, clapping, swaying. Hundred of people waving cameras, flashes and perhaps, somewhere, evil birds plotting evil tricks. “Perhaps” was the problem. They were watching over the staircase to the Palais du Festival, in Cannes, jurors, actresses, actors, directors parading on the red carpet. “Perhaps”... He shrugged his shoulders. Wrong reports, mistakes.. red herring... They were wasting time and energy... Probably...

“Hey... Young man?”

A man in his fifties, thinning on the top, in a tuxedo was studying him with interest. “ I'm preparing a movie...” He tilted his head. “It's about POW planning to escape from a German camp, during World War II and there is a character...” He bit his lips and nodded, “a young English officer, blond, rather short in stature... You're... you're exactly him...”

But a wave of people was dragging him forward and he just held out a card to the young blond.

The reporter joined the photographer. His clenched jaws betrayed his annoyance. “Nothing. It was a wrong track!” He pointed his chin at the group on the red carpet; “Who was he?”

Illya Kuryakin peeped at the card. “A movie director... John Sturges...”

Napoleon Solo raised an interested eyebrow, “ Sturges? Oh, yes! You saw The Magnificent Seven, last year?”

“The remake of Kurosawa's Seven Samurai?, yes... not bad.”

Napoleon Solo knew this face. “And? What did he want?”

Illya Kuryakin smiled innocently. “Oh... he just wanted me to play a part in his next movie...”


	13. The Russian Blue Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They just switched the brains..."

“He's fine... in a way. He's unharmed. They just switched the brains and...”

 

“They “just” did what?”, Napoleon Solo barked.

They designed a machine and tested it... He was ... a guinea pig. His brain is.... here.” The man pointed at a strange basket.

“What the hell...”

Suddenly, the basket shuddered, rocked and... meowed until the top fell aside. Two blond ears appeared. Then, blue eyes. Icy, sharp, blue eyes looking daggers at everyone. The feline creature stretched his back and leaped out of the basket, lithely, his tail lashing the table. Napoleon Solo held out an hesitating hand, causing the cat to purse his nose.

“ _ **Don't even try to 'kitty-kitty' me, Napoleon!”**_

”What...”

“Oh, Mr. Solo...”, Alexander Waverly cracked a smile, “It seems that the cat... Mr. Kuryakin developed a strange ability to... telepathy...”

 

 

The other man cleared his throat. “ We're fixing the machine. Mr. Kuryakin... will be back to his old self... as soon as possible....” He wasn't so overconfident as the blond cat turned his head towards him.

Waverly put a commiserative hand on his agent's shoulder. “At the moment, Mr. Solo, you'll take care of ... your feline partner. Take him to your home. I think that Lisa already delivered litter, litter box and cat food...”

The cat stiffened, offended.

“We'll take care of his body here. You, Mr. Kuryakin, if you'd be nice enough and come back in the basket? Please?”

The cat rolled his eyes but complied obediently. Alexander Waverly closed the basket and held it out to Napoleon Solo. “Good luck, Mr. Solo.”

“ _ **I heard this, sir!”**_


	14. Leave your place...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and the darn cat!

 

 

Napoleon Solo folded his arms and looked upon his masterpiece with a smug smile. Then, he turned to his partner who observed him, sitting in a very dignified Bastet posture.

“Okay. The litter box is in the bathroom. The bowl of water is here...”, he smirked, “Sorry, my friend, cats don't drink vodka... I put the blue cushion in the basket Lisa chose for you... Look... How lovely...”

The cat's eyes narrowed, his tail snaking on the floor. Suddenly, he creased his nose slyly and trotted majestically towards the leather sofa.

“What...?”

Illya Kuryakin leaped gracefully on it, stretched out languorously and tilted his head.

“ ** _You were saying...?_** ” His paw brushed softly the leather and Napoleon gave up.

“Good night... Darn cat!”

“ ** _Good night, Napoleon..._**


	15. Manuscript

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Massage... message... ?

The sensation was... He couldn't say. He couldn't think.

Fingers patted, brushed, rolled, untying knots stretching muscles.

Then warm, strong though amazingly smooth hands pressed against his shoulders, his shoulder blades, his waist, stroking him as a horseman would stroke his mount, reassuring, comforting, dragging him in a blissful, restful sleep.

Suddenly, fingers started a strange dance, from the nape of his neck.

It wasn't a massage.

They strolled from left to right, lines and curves, dashes and periods...

It was... a message?

Period.

Fingers stopped, resting on the small of his back, almost causing him to moan with frustration.


	16. Mi Casa Es Su Casa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a key... Napoleon's key.

“It's... a key...” Illya Kuryakin stated, frowning at the silvery thing.

“Amazing sense of observation, Sherlock..”, Napoleon Solo chuckled; “ It's the key to my apartment.”

The Russian tilted his head, still considering the key dubiously.

“It won't explode, you know. It's just... a key...”

Illya Kuryakin looked unusually stumped. He bit his lower lip, “What do you mean by giving me a key, Napoleon?”

“It's just...” Napoleon picked up the key and held it out to the other man. “You're my partner. My friend. You can come over whenever you want.” He grimaced comically, “I don't have anything to hide from you.”

The Russian took the key, still hesitating.

“Illya, it's kind of a family tradition... Mi casa es su casa...” He paused and put his hand on his friend's arm. “It doesn't mean that you have to come...” He released his grip, “and it doesn't mean either that you have to give me yours...”

“Oh...”, Illya Kuryakin hissed softly.


	17. Everything's as fine as could be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya felt confused about the key. (Mi Casa... sequel)

_The more he thought about it, the more he felt confused. What would be right? What would be wrong?_

“Mr. Kuryakin?”

Alexander Waverly stood in the hallway, considering his agent. “Is there anything wrong?”

“Er... No, sir!”

The hesitation was barely noticeable, but Waverly didn't miss it. “What is it about? Did someone say something...”

“No, sir, no. It's...” The Russian shook his head, “Really, it's nothing.”

“Mr. Kuryakin?”

It was no use trying to dodge the question.

“I'm sorry, it's... stupid. Napoleon... Mr. Solo...” Illya Kuryakin stopped. He was making a fool of himself... But the pale blue eyes were literally pinning him to the wall. “Mr. Solo gave me a key of his apartment.”

Unexpectedly, Waverly smiled. “Oh... He did that...”

“I told you, sir... It's nothing. I'm wasting your time and...”

“He never did that, you know?... Mr; Solo is used to have a drink with his partners, to have dinner, to invite them, but this...”, the Old Man patted his agent's shoulder, “this, he never did. Everybody know Mr. Solo's cheerful demeanor. He could look like to be an outgoing person. But he likes his privacy. Home is a place where he can be himself, kind of a safe harbor.” Waverly waved his pipe. “Mr. Kuryakin, he trust it to you.... which means that you made a friend. A very good one...”

“He told me that... and...”

“And?”

“He told me that I didn't have to give him mine...”

He could have sworn that Waverly's eyes had just sparkled.

“Oh... he told that... So, everything's as fine as could be...”

And he walked away.

_Everything's as fine as could be?  
Really?_


	18. Safety, tranquility, privacy and freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories... (Mi casa sequel2)

 

 

A key.

An inestimable opportunity to have your own place; A place where you could be alone, quiet and free. A place where you could be yourself. “ _Safe harbor_ ”, Waverly said. Yes.

A key.

Safety, tranquility, privacy and freedom.

As a kid, he couldn't remember about any door being locked. He smiled at the memory of his never deserted childhood home.

As a student, then during his tenure in the Soviet Navy, he had to share rooms with others. No keys to lock the closets. No keys to lock the room.

No safety, no tranquility, no privacy, no freedom.

And one day, -he'd remember it forever -, an old lady had held out a huge key to him, peeping at him over her glasses.

“ _Voilà. C'est la clef de votre chambre. Les toilettes et la douche sont là. Et... jeune homme... pas trop de visites, hein?_ ”

(“Here it is, the key to you bedroom. The gents and the bathroom are here. And, young man... not too many visitors, Mmmm?”)

It was small, very small – a so huge key and a so tiny place -, at the very top – endless staircase...- of an old building, in the Quartier Latin.

But it was a place for his own.

A place where he could read.

A place where he could write.

A place where he could work.

A place where he could brood.

A place where he could remember.

A place where he could laugh and cry.

Safety, tranquility, privacy and freedom.

Visitors? Oh, no.

 

Illya Kuryakin considered the sparkling brand new key. “ _It doesn't mean that you have to give me yours!”,_ Napoleon said. He cracked a smile and shook his head. Of course, he had to.

He had to and... he wanted to.

Napoleon Solo was his American partner. As the New York H.Q. C.E.A., he was his superior though he never pulled rank. Napoleon was clever, skilled, efficient, charming and often infuriating. He was his partner and his friend. A man who trusted his own safety, his own tranquility, his own privacy, his own freedom to him.

Not a “visitor”.

A friend.

The Russian put his spare key on his partner's desk.


	19. Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody get a guardian angel...

 

 

“It's no use expecting your guardian angel to come, Solo... Now, we've to talk.”

Napoleon Solo smirked defiantly despite his split lips, “There are no guardian angels in the pay of the UNCLE...”

The other grabbed his throat, almost strangling him.

“Oh... Mr. Solo is a smartass... How stupid...” The man pushed maliciously his head back against the wall, “What about your fair-haired Russian?

“Just... my... partner.” Napoleon croaked and he smirked again, “Just a bit late... Just as usual.”

The man's lips opened, inarticulate, and he fell down.

“ “JUST” your partner, Napoleon? And “a bit LATE, as USUAL”?”

 

 


	20. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guardian angel, again...

He stood in silent contemplation, enjoying what he was seeing. Massaging his partner was a priceless privilege from which he intended to derive full benefit, starting with watching large shoulders, thin waist and promising wonders at the moment hidden under a towel.

He let his fingers run down the warm skin, marveling at its smoothness but gasped, as he felt two unusual bulges.

His partner sighed languorously, spreading huge white wings.

Napoleon woke up and chuckled at the sleepy body next to him. Tradition told that angels had no genitalia. He knew for sure that his lover wasn't an angel.


	21. Show him the ropes...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Kuryakin will show you the ropes...

 

 

“Mr. Kuryakin will... show you the ropes!”, Alexander Waverly stated.

_Show me the ropes? What... I don't like that. First this hesitation... and now they just exchanged a look. I saw you, gentlemen, and I don't like it at all. Two cats expecting to eat the Solo canary... “Mr. Kuryakin”, your angelic face doesn't fool me! Want to play? Okay!_

_ _

“Of course, sir. I'm sure he will...”  _I'm good at angelic expression, too. Mmmm... he puts on his glasses..._

“It”s a very interesting place...”

“ _Doctor” Kuryakin, now... a file and... a map._

“The lab is inside a rocky island, next to the cliff... about 200 meters...”

_Oh... No..._

“There is a cable between the cliff and the island...”

_Oh... No..._

“But we can't use it... We'll have to rappel down and swim to the island. Then we'll climb...”

_Oh... No..._

“And the cliff is...?”

_You could believe in Waverly's concerned tone but his eyes are sparkling with amusement._

_Smile, Solo, smile..._

“Oh, not so high... about 110 meters...”

_He's peeping at the file. Show off..._

“112 meters, exactly.”

“Clever plan, my friend...”  _I'm a good actor, am I not?_  “but I'm not sure that our evil birds will agree with it... We might be just... sitting ducks...”

_Oh, no. Illya is watching me over his glasses and... he smiles._

“No. They can't think of it. They consider that the island is unattainable from the coast...”

_And now he's smirking..._

“You know, the cliff is quite impressive. There are the waves, too, and... some nasty currents...”

“And sharks, I guess?”

“No, Napoleon, of course, not. I already prepared the explosives, sir.”

“Good, Mr Kuryakin, good....”

_Oh, yes, good, Mr. Kuryakin..._

“Napoleon? Let me tell about the ropes we're going to use...”


	22. Open book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My partner is a book...

 

 

He's a book.

You know, one of those books set – hidden? - in the darkest corner of the highest shelf of a gigantic library.

Small. Thin.

Black leather cover and golden lines.

No title.

Out of reach. Almost.

But you know it's here. When you get it to open, pages scratch your fingers and you could swear you heard it chuckling.

No story. An inextricable web which causes the average reader to give up leafing through it.

He's a book.

This kind of book.

Small. Thin.

Black turtleneck. Golden hair.

Out of reach. Almost.

Inscrutable. Almost.

But I'm an avid reader...


	23. Mismatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all about respect.

 

 

“Damned...”

Napoleon Solo considered the thing as if it were a venomous spider. The threatening look didn't impress the mother-of-pear button which swung gracefully and eventually rolled down. The shirt gaped miserably. He couldn't conceal the horror under his tie.

No way.

Sighing, he picked up the button and peeped hopefully at the receptionist's desk with his most charming expression.

“Napoleon?”

His partner pointed an accusing finger at the button, “You don't intend to ask Wendy... about this?”

Napoleon raised an innocent eyebrow.

“Mr Waverly wouldn't like it, Napoleon!”

No. Of course, no, he wouldn't...

“Oh they would probably do it with pleasure, but... they are not our maids. It... it would be disrespectful.”

Napoleon sighed and put the button in his pocket.

“Mr. Kuryakin?” Wendy handed a small paper bag to the Russian who smiled, took the bag and kissed the woman's hand.

“Thank you,...”

“My pleasure, Mr Kuryakin.”

“Illya...”, the Russian hissed softly.

She blushed slightly as he left the hall.

“Wendy?”

She looked dreamily at the deserted hallway.

“Wendy?”

“Oh, Mr. Solo... Sorry. May I help you?”

Napoleon Solo smiled, “No, Wendy, thank you.”, but he didn't leave. “Mmmm.... Wendy... did you make cakes for Illya?”

She burst into laughter, “No, Mr. Solo... It's just...” She hesitated but, by the way, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were friends, so... “I noticed that Mr Kuryakin got holes in his socks and I offered him to mend them.”

 

The hazel eyes turned black.

“You “offered” him to mend his socks...?”

She smiled, “Yes... Poor Mr. Kuryakin... he worried but I insisted... and.... Mr. Solo?”

The CEA had vanished into thin air.

“Illya? ILLYA KURYAKIN? Where are you, you, sneaky preachy Russian?”


	24. Summer time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good partners have to be complementary.

“Amazing...”, the Russian hissed softly.

A sneaky – and icy - breeze twirled sand around, causing the dark haired man to turn away, eyes closed for a few seconds.

Amazing?

When he opened his eyes, he almost choked at the sight.

“What... What are you doing?”

His partner chuckled as he was pulling off his sweater which fell in a heap on the pants.

 

 

“You... you don't intend to...”

“Look at those colors... It's a lagoon...”

Napoleon Solo rolled his eyes. A lagoon? “A Polar lagoon, you crazy Russian!”, he pointed at the waves. “And you don't like the sea, do you?”

Illya Kuryakin bit his lips with amusement. “I don't like being ON the sea, Napoleon... but I love being IN...” He smirked, “That why we're perfect partners, my friend... I'm seasick but I love swimming... You're a qualified sailor but you can barely float...” He ran towards the waves and plunged in the spume.


	25. Call me "Napoleon"!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoléon? Na-po-leee-onn?

“Mr. Solo?”

His new partner handed a report.

“Thanks. And... please, stop with “Mr. Solo”, Illya...”

The Russian grew somber, apparently confounded. “How should I address you...”, right corner of his lips curled, “as you're... my superior?”

 

“Oh, you don't have to...”, he paused, suddenly noticing too innocent blue eyes in a too innocent face, “ to use honorifics with me.” He smirked, “I'm a modest person. Just call me Napoleon! Anything worrying?”

Illya Kuryakin smiled, “No...  _Napoléon_.”

“Napoleon!”

“Just what I said:  _Napoléon_.”

“No, Na-po-lee-onn!”

“Sorry... I thought it was the French emperor's name...”

“It is!”

“Oh...”


End file.
